


Inevitable

by Frost_and_Light



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Samifer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:59:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frost_and_Light/pseuds/Frost_and_Light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester were never raised knowing what goes bump in the night, or what it was that killed their mother. But trying to lead normal lives doesn't keep the Host of Heaven from knocking at their door--it just means they're even further out of their pay grade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> An AU in which the John never raised the boys to be hunters, yet they are still the predestined vessels for Michael and Lucifer. An eventual Samifer fic. 
> 
> This story is intended to be multi-chapter. As part of a post made on tumblr, my intention is that each chapter will be written by someone different, to see where the story goes. When a chapter is completed, the co-author will be added. Please message me here or on my tumblr (URL terogamus-audinos) if you have a completed chapter you'd like to add.

Sam didn't appreciate the apparent fact that his visions had returned, let alone their new-found vividness. 

The visions were something that had started right before Jess had died in the fire. He been away, out camping with some college buddies, when he got the call. Arson. Homicide. That's what it had been. Sam hadn't cared about that--all he had cared about was that it was his fault for not being there with her. His fault that he'd seen it so vividly in his mind and done nothing.

The stress from that, doctors said, had caused his splitting headaches and fainting spells in which he saw other youth being killed in horrible and frankly unnatural circumstances. Those had plagued him for about a year, and then stopped as abruptly as they'd started. He had been three years clear of hallucinations, and the therapist he met with routinely said it was a good sign for his PTSD management. He was getting better. 

That was why it was so devastating to him that the images had returned, worse than ever. He'd gotten nowhere. Now, in his dreams, he was taunted by images of Jess, telling him how special he was and how everything had happened to him for a reason. Sam was a religious young man, but he drew the line at anyone telling him Jess's and his mother's deaths had been part of the plan of a loving God. 

Initially, Sam tried to ignore the apparition. He knew that he was dreaming, and remembered what had happened. It wasn't real. Jess hadn't come back to him. 

That was when the hallucinations had gotten more demanding. 

"Sam," not-Jess whispered, running a few delicate fingers through his hair as he laid on his pillow and tried to ignore her. "Sam, why don't you speak to me anymore?" 

"Because there is no 'you,'" he growled. He was irritated with the whole ordeal. It taunted him when he paid it attention, and his guilt was a physical pain when he saw her face while he ignored her. He wanted it to be over, yet his brain had conjured an image that a part of him couldn't dismiss. 

She laid a hand on his shoulder, leaning over him so she could see his face, her soft blonde hair brushing over his arm as she did. "What do you mean," she asked softly. "I'm right here, Sam." 

"No, you're not," he said, letting his voice grow angry since it seemed it was going to shake one way or the other. "I'm dreaming, and Jess is dead."

The apparition sighed. "Yes, that's true," it said. Sam felt the bed dip and shift, and knew than not-Jess had shifted her position. A quick tilt of the head and a glance in her direction confirmed that she was now sitting up on the bed, gazing down at him, a look of regret on her face. 

"I'm not Jess," it told him. "I thought you'd be more comfortable speaking with someone you loved." 

Sam frowned, tipping his head. This was new, and different. He was used to his hallucinations being like VHS tapes. It didn't matter where he started them or how long he re-watched them, they were always the same. There was nothing he could do but watch. 

But this was different. This wasn't like his other memories of Jess, or like the visions--no, _hallucinations_ , he reminded himself firmly--of the murdered youth. This was interactive. Sam tensed and sat up on the bed, even though a large part of him knew he shouldn't be humoring his psychosis. "That's kinda what I've been saying. But fine," he added with a sigh. "If you're not Jess, what are you?" 

Not-Jess straightened where she sat, raising her chin. Her eyes glittered with no small amount of pride as she said "I am an angel of the Lord." 

It wasn't the worst thing to hear. It was beautiful, Sam thought, to believe that dead loved ones became angels. However, this figment had already said it wasn't her. 

"Okay," he said slowly. "And why is an angel visiting me disguised as my dead girlfriend, and spooning on a bed in my dreams?" 

"I didn't want to trick you, Sam. I hope you believe me. But I see the way you suffer, and thought you'd like to see your love again." 

"You thought wrong," he replied bitterly, hoping the tone of his voice would make it clear to whatever part of his psyche was responsible that this shit was the opposite of okay. 

And as Sam watched, Jess' features began to sharpen, losing the soft roundness of her face, gaining lines and angles and settling instead as the face of a man, older than him by 20-odd years and dressed in clothes far more mundane than the ethereal white nightgown they replaced. 

The figure looked down sullenly. "I wanted to be near you, Sam," it said with the man's voice, deep but soft. "I'd hoped you could feel...I've come to you because you're special, Sam. There's almost no one in the world like you, and you have an important destiny."

He shouldn't have been entertaining the delusion, he knew. Shouldn't answer, shouldn't press. What were those tips the psychiatrist had suggested for waking up from a dream? 

"Right," he replied almost before he realized he'd opened his mouth at all. "This is the part where you tell me that God wants me to shoot up a school, isn't it? Look, uh, angel. I really don't want to be 'that' kind of crazy. Just leave me alone." 

The man examined him carefully and critically for a long moment, and there was such a feeling of eternity in his eyes that Sam almost believed that it was the face of an angel--not one of the naked kids from Valentine's cards, but a real angel of the kind described in the Bible. A warrior of heaven. 

"If you aren't ready to speak, I can vanish," he said softly. "But I will never leave you alone. I am your guardian angel, Sam. You will never be without me again." 

The young man scoffed, thinking of the miserable luck he and the rest of his family had had over his relatively short life. "My guardian angel," he said with an ill-tempered laugh. "I'll believe it when I see it." 

\-------------------

Sam Winchester had absolutely promised his brother that he would mention if his condition changed. He'd already dropped out of the running for Stanford Law after what happened to Jess, and his visions had kept him from seriously pursuing anything else. Instead, he lived out of his brother's spare room and put in enough hours at the scrapyard to earn his keep. 

The young man knew he owed Dean the truth about his dreams. Hell, he owed it to Bobby, the closest thing he had to a father, as well. But Sam was so disappointed in himself. In this weakness. He knew that no matter what Dean said, that's exactly what he thought it was too. Their mother had died the same way as Jess, right in front of Dean, and apart from being a bit gruff the older Winchester boy was as well adjusted as could be. 

So when the time came that Sam needed to borrow one of Bobby's beaters to drive into town and see the therapist at Sioux Falls General, he told everyone who asked that his appointment was for a flu shot. 

Getting the appointment had been fine. Getting away from the scrapyard had been fine. It had been the near-death experience that left him a little rattled. 

Sam was a good driver, had pretty good reflexes in a game of football (if he said so himself), and hadn't been screwing around. So the only thing that was his fault in the whole mess was the fact that his brain couldn't stop screaming 'trucktruck _truck_ ' long enough for him to react and avoid the 18 wheeler that had cut across the median and plowed into the front of Bobby's old van, slicing the hood right of and crumpling the interior. It was the kind of thing cars couldn't take, and it was the kind of thing people just didn't live through. So to watch most of it happen from the corn field at the side of the road was a confusing experience, to say the least. 

Sam gasped, shocked, his body tensed to take the fatal impact that never came. He heard the smash and the shattering of safety glass as it spilled out over the country highway. He felt a sturdy hand on his shoulder, comforting him with its weight. The younger Winchester boy turned to find a disturbing familiar face regarding him with exceptional calm.

Despite what he had experienced for years, Sam felt strongly that he knew the difference between what was true and what was in hi head. Dreams were obviously a part of the latter category, but...here he was, and here this guy was. This guy who claimed to be an angel. 

"Are you, uh..." he began, knowing from experience not to talk as though he'd seen the guy before.

"Never leaving your side," the man supplied without a touch of sarcasm or irony. 

"That," Sam replied, feeling dull. 

This was really happening, wasn't it? It wasn't his migraine-induced hallucinations. It wasn't the dreams that felt off and that vanished in the morning. Unless he'd gone off the deep end, this was actually, seriously happening. 

"Holy shit."

..........................

Dean Winchester was a car guy, not really a people guy. So it was unfortunate for him that his employer and substitute father was even less of a people guy. It left him with the responsibility of answering phones, emails, and the door. Hearing the bell ring through the house and the garage out back, Dean trotted around the house to the front, wiping grease-covered hands on a grease covered cloth as he did. 

The men at the door sure as Hell didn't look like their usual customers. They usually got local folks, whereas these guys were suited up and had stern, self-important posture. Dean assumed they were salesmen or tax collectors or Mormons, and tried not to frown too deeply. 

As Dean approached, kicking dirt and gravel up in his wake, the men turned to regard him in unison. There was something definitely creepy about them, he realized. Not 'I want your money' creepy, more like 'I keep human eyes in a jar' creepy. Really disfunctional types. Shoulda worn his gun.

"Hey there," he called with a smile that crinkled his cheeks but didn't meet his eyes. 

"Dean Winchester," the shorter of the two men said with as gravelly a voice as the mechanic had ever heard. He was still fairly tall, white, and with black hair and some serious five o'clock shadow. 

"Yeah, that's me," he replied levelly. "Can I help you guys with something," he added, looking around conspicuously at the fact that they hadn't brought a car and were soliciting an auto mechanic. 

"We sincerely hope you will," the other man said. He was black, bald, and had a touch of humor in his voice where his associate had seemed robotic. "We have a proposition for you," 

"Shoot," Dean prompted with a nod, not stepping any closer. He cracked his knuckles under the pretense of scrubbing at the grime on his hands. 

"Your brother has found himself, through no fault of his own," the gruff man said with a meaningful look at his associate, Dean noted "in a great deal of danger." 

Sounded like a threat. "What kind of danger would that be," he pressed. 

"Spiritual, in large part," was the reply. "But certainly physical as well. Dean Winchester, I am an angel of the Lord, and I come to you with a message from the archangel Michael and from Heaven itself."

Dean might have pissed himself laughing right there if it weren't for the edge in this man's voice and the sharpness of his eyes and the way the sky seemed to be darkening over far too quickly to be harmless.

The man spoke again. "You will not be ready to hear this, but I must say it--things are moving more quickly than we had anticipated," he said. "Your brother is being courted by an angel, who has appeared to speak to him many times. We believe they have now made real contact, and we must do what we can to hide your brother from him."

"Okay, let's pretend for a second that I don't have a ton of work to do, or that I believe in angels at all, actually," Dean growled, abruptly discovering the end of his carefully cultivated patience. "Why would I want to _hide_ my brother from one?"

"Have you ever heard of the archangel Lucifer?

.........................

Sam was panicking. Full blown, collapsed on the ground, restricted breathing panic. 

"It's alright," the angel said, crouched in front of the young man with its hands on his shoulders. He looked firmly into Sam's eyes, commanding all of his attention.

"No," Sam managed. "It really isn't alright. You aren't real, and that didn't happen."

The angel's eyes narrowed. "You've suffered, I see," he said, his tone dangerous without the softness Sam had heard in it before. "What's happened to you that you can't believe I'm real?"

"You're just another trick. I'm seeing things," he answered, more to himself than to the apparition in front of him that felt so _solid_ if he let himself believe. 

The other man tsked, apparently leaning back to regard Sam more fully. "You think your visions were fake," he said. Why did he sound so remorseful? "Sam, what you saw was a gift. Something I had given to you. You must have searched and realized that everything you saw happened."

He had, and it did. All of it. But it was impossible, and he must have had some severe deja vu or something else caused by his stress, because people didn't just see the future like migraines were crystal balls. And _Jesus_ , would this guy stop looking at him like he was an abandoned puppy?

The angel shifted suddenly, and even though Sam flinched from it, the man set his hands on either side of his face, just under his ears. If his inhumanly cold hands weren't enough to clear his head, whatever happened next certainly was. It was like being doused with cold water. His mind stopped spinning, his heart stopped racing, and he regained control over his breathing. This seemed to satisfy the angel, and his expression softened a little, though it still had a subtle edge. 

"I want you to be happy," the angel whispered, and it felt good, because the last person to say anything like that to him was long gone. "What would that take?" 

Sam took a while to consider, because frankly a lot of the things that would have made him happy were gone--his mother and the woman he had seen himself spending the rest of his life with were both dead. His father had drifted away from them, spending longer and longer spans driving aimlessly down American highways until one day he didn't come back. And his brother...Dean felt gone in a different, less permanent way. Dean's happiness. That was something.

"Family," Sam answered carefully, still not totally convinced of the angel's existence. "I want my family to stop falling apart."

Something smoothed its way across the angel's face. A gentle smile was contrasted with dangerously intense eyes as the angel drawled "I think you'll find we have a lot in common."


End file.
